


Blood Drugs Science Mystery

by SmutPrince



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: College AU, M/M, mystery quartet, nsfw to come in later chapters just ..... just gimme a minute, shenanigans when rick comes in, stan redemption au, tags to come, the fucking 1960s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutPrince/pseuds/SmutPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which the events after Stanley's eviction pan out different than they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stanley Pines wiped furiously at his eyes, always hating when he got angry; it led to crying and other unsavory activities. Like drinking himself into a stupor as he was now. It had been two days since his dad kicked him out of the house and he’d just barely found a place to crash. With no friends, this was no easy task. Cruising by on money he’d saved to get himself a new motorcycle, he’s been staying at a local motel, dirty and dangerous. There were several times drunken older men would approach him, grab his ass or his crotch, proposition him with money. There were several times where he considered their offers. _Just for the cash, not because I’m some Nancy or nothin’._

Ever since he’d messed up--ever since he lost his home, his family, and most importantly Ford--he’d been working hard. Harder than ever. Harder at the docks, harder at school ... he would barely see Ford anymore. Stanley assumed the genius got into the dual enrollment program at Backupsmore University; which, for some reason, Stan felt responsible for. If he hadn’t been so mad, been such a failure … no. He had to stop thinking like that. It was an accident. Dad is a jerk and so is Ford. He’d show them. He’d get into college just like Ford. Hell, he’d go to the same University if he worked at it! He’d show them all, including himself. He wasn’t an idiot like everyone thought he was, including himself. He could achieve greatness and win back everyone’s respect. Including himself.

Stanley sniffed hard and pressed his exhaustion and drunkenness behind his eyes, returning to the application essay he needed to write. He discovered writing drunk and editing sober was a good way to go about looking for motivation. He’d write up a good sob story about his life, puff up his goals as an inventor--he had a good bit of product ideas as it was. Science wasn’t the only gig for a college kid.. Stanley considered himself a natural businessman, and not just based on his sleaziness. He knew he had good ideas. He just knew it. Maybe getting kicked out was a blessing. Maybe he’d be stronger for it.

This was the late 60’s, with all that was going on, with everything that was changing, why couldn’t he too?

\--

All six fingers working adeptly, typing rapidly on his trusty old model Hermes 3000 typewriter, Ford concluded his thesis paper on perpetual motion for his official full time college application. Despite Stanley’s sabotage, he had managed to complete his theory on his project and recreated the model. It worked like a charm. Damn Stan for ruining this the first time around … my future is all but unsalvageable. Ford knew that wasn’t true, if he worked hard enough he’d get by just fine; but he’d be surrounded by the same people he knew from high school. The same idiotic, numbingly ignorant sheep. He wanted to dream big, and dream big he did. He’d work his ass off his first semester, get into honor’s college, get a 4.0, and reintroduce his project to West Tech. He’d work his ass off and he’d aspire to the great things he knew he was destined for.

Leaning his chair on its back two legs, Ford cracked his knuckles. It would be rough sailing, boring almost at the hometown college university, but he’d manage. New Jersey was a decent state when it came to education, right in the middle ranks. Ford sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was a vague unsettlement in the air of the Pines home. For pegged it on the loss of his full ride, rather than the loss of his twin. Ma was too busy with Shermie to be doting over a lost Stanley. It wasn’t like Pa cared, he’d been the one to throw him out. Nobody would miss him; Ford felt a twinge of guilt in his chest at that. He shook it off, replacing guilt with anger. It wasn’t like he kicked him out or did anything wrong, Stan screwed up: he’d ruined this family’s chance at a good name, ruined Ford’s chance at glory!

Ford uncurled his fist, staring at the fingernail marks in his palm. He was getting angrier these days, a lot angrier. Frustrated seemed the better word. How could this happen to him, how could things go so wrong? Once again life threw a six fingered curve ball at him and he’d swung and missed. All because of Stanley. Falling forward on his chair, Ford stood, heading towards their--his--beds. A bunk bed was far too childish, and at this point it was far too old, to still be called his bed. Ford would ask his dad for a cot in the morning. Settling on the bottom bunk, his usual spot, Ford stared up at the bottom of the upper bunk. Usually, there was a sagging bulge in the center of his vision, but tonight the bed lay flat. Ford closed his eyes and turned in his bed, away from the top bunk. He’d sleep tonight, without any ridiculous notions of guilt swamping his thoughts.

Or at least he hoped.


	2. Rough Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got no clue where I'm going with this. I'm writing with a vague idea of what this story is gonna be. I just gotta get him through the summer. The long, long, eventful summer.

Graduation came and went. Nobody showed up for Stanley, and he thinks Ford purposely withdrew from the ceremony to avoid him. Ma and Pa hadn’t contacted him in months now. There had been nights where Stanley would finish his homework after hours at the docks, only for the clock to strike 3:47am. Two hours and thirteen minutes until school. He’d worked so hard to get to where he was, and while he was no honor student he had managed to make it into Backupsmore University, which had been his ultimate goal. It hurt--it hurt bad--for his parents to drop him so thoroughly; kicking out of the house didn’t seem like enough, and he walked to get his diploma to the sound of a silent gymnasium. Stan convinced himself Ma had just been forbidden to come, that it wasn’t her own volition that she didn’t come see him. He hoped. Ma was his last ditch hope at a family member that still loved him.

It was rough.

So summer came and Stan went to work. He had three months to come up with enough money not just for rent at the shitty motel but for books, supplies (tuition was covered by the state thank god), and a dorm preferably. He was getting sick of the rats nibbling at all his snacks, especially the toffee peanuts. God damn he couldn’t give those up, just like he couldn’t give up butterscotch schnapp milkshakes. Even though both had ruined, or were going to ruin, his life. Stanley looked in the full body mirror at himself. Working down at the docks had built up some arm muscle in him, toning his chest. But he couldn’t get rid of the god damn chub on his belly. He’d always been the “fat” twin. Pa Pines would often pick at him for it, saying he needed to get into shape for his boxing sessions. He’d call him tubby, fatty, chubs, all sorts of degrading things. He didn’t feel out of shape, but everytime he looked in the mirror it felt like looking at a pathetic, fat, loser version of Ford. Stanley threw his blanket over the door, covering the mirror. He flopped down on his bed, eyes dry and tired from another late night of drinking and studying for the new semester. Stanley’s eyes seemed to sag further and further down on his face, until his eyes shut.

It was a sweltering hot Thursday morning. Stanley groaned as he rolled out of bed, sticky and damp from sweat. He had work in an hour at the docks, picking barnacles off the bottom of ships, and sweet Moses he did not want to get up. His head throbbed and swam and he felt the familiar sensation of old alcohol settling in his stomach, not yet digested. He groaned, hauling himself out of bed with a sort of stupor that fit that of an old man, not that of a 18 year old kid. “C’mon Stan, you gotta get up or they’ll kick you out of this place,” he grunted to himself, pressing onwards towards the bathroom. Dirty sink met the dirty wall, and his mirror was stained with what he hoped to god was some sort of strange rust. Removing his toothbrush from the plastic cup, you know, the ones you get from family-friendly events when you pass by the table of knicknacks. This one read ‘Backupsmore’ and was possibly Stan’s most prized possession besides his car. Proof he was going to the university his stupid brother got into.

Though he didn’t know for sure what had happened with Ford, if he had transferred to another school or not. Still, he got into college. The situation was bizarre, to say the least. All those years of planning on going on adventures with Ford, all that time he invested in that boat. It was all gone and what? Because of a simple mistake? Ridiculous. Stanley slammed his toothbrush back into the cup and spit into the sink. “Fuckin’ stupid …” he mumbled, leaving the bathroom after rinsing the sink.

Head aching and throbbing from a hangover he’d brought upon himself, Stanley pulled on a slightly less filthy tank top, a pair of fraying and torn whitewash jeans, and his work boots. Everything he owned was slowly deteriorating, worked hard at the docks and at odd jobs around town. He couldn’t afford boxing anymore, but he considered the underground ring once or twice. One solid job and an odd one here and there wasn’t going to buy his textbooks. Stan grabbed his awkwardly large key ring, which held his car keys and the keys to the motel; clunky and rusted with age. Shutting and locking the door that didn’t lock right but kept his neighbors from knowing that, Stanley hopped into his car, revving the engine, and backing out of the parking lot, heading towards the docks. Today was a new day, he’d make the most of that. Only eighty days of summer left.


	3. Looking Bleak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up there's some racism in this and antisemitism so just, uh, watch out.

“What the hell do you mean I’ve been replaced!?” Stanley demanded, voice echoing across the docks and disrupting a flock of seagulls relaxing on the pier. “Look, kid, ya just don’t fit in. Kikes like you can’t get on in this part of town, especially aren’t no room for you with the blacks coming in. They’re hard workers, work for half as much.” Ardan picked at something in his teeth before rolling his sleeves up and getting back to work, leaving a stunned Stanley to stand there, hands clenching and unclenching. “Kike huh?” he snapped, grabbing Ardan from the back of the coat and hoisting him up. “Woah, woah, woah you crazy fucking-” Stanley tossed his now ex boss into the small strip of water between the boat and the docks. “That’s for callin’ me a kike ya god damn pile of sh-!” Stanley felt the bluntness of a fist against the back of his head, and ended his sentence with a yelp before swinging blindly behind him. He made no contact with whoever hit him. Laughter filled the air as Stanley was shoved, nearly falling off the edge of the docks.

Face red with anger and embarrassment, Stanley scowled and ran from the docks, leaving the laughter and slurs behind him. God dammit, god dammit, GOD DAMMIT. Stanley furiously wiped his eyes. He’d lost his cool, again, and now word would spread through the city about him, about his temper. He’d be lucky if he could get an honest odd job now. Swearing up a storm and causing a few mothers with their kids to glare at him before ushering their children to the other side of the street, Stanley trudged home. Grumbling and swearing, Stanley turned the knob of the door only to meet resistance. Confused, Stanley looked up. He’d come to his old house. His blood ran cold when he heard voices inside, Shermy crying, and the sound of the phone ringing. Shit, shit, shit.

Stanley jumped down the set of brick stairs leading to the door and fled as fast as he could, eyes bleary with tears. He thought he was over this, that he was moving on. It only took one bump in the road to send him crawling back to his old home, and Stanley hated that. Hated that his heart wanted to go back, that his legs would carry him to that house if he didn’t will them not to.

Finally, with a lot of attention to where he was going this time, he made it back to his motel room. Locks clicking out of place, Stanley entered the shabby soon to be empty room. With no job he was sure to lose it all soon. Fuck, why did he ever think this was going to work? That he could possibly manage on his own. He was incompetent. Pa knew it, Ford knew it, and dammit so did Stanley.

Frustrated tears. Stanley wiped angrily at them, throwing his keys at the wall and earning a yell and bangs from the neighbor. Stanley sat in tense silence. God he needed a drink. Again.

\--

By the fifth shot Stanley’s vision was blurry at the edges, and his face cracked open wide in a stupid grin. The young man slurred as he asked for another drink, throwing the last of his cash at the bartender, whose eyes narrowed in irritation. Stanley rested his face on the bartop, relieved by its cool surface. A final shot was slammed down in front of him, spilling a little on his cheek. “Thanks….” he slurred, before heaving himself up and downing the last of the liquor his money could buy.  
Stanley surveyed the bar around him. There were several familiar faces. Well, familiar in the sense that he’d seen them here often, not that he knew a single damn one of them. Ma Pines tried to keep him and Ford away from the unsavory aspects of the city. A hard task when you were on the poorer side of town. A gaggle of said unsavory aspects met his drunken eye, and smirked. Stanley thought nothing of it, returning to listening to the game on the radio. The Phillies were playing the Mets and, by how excited the announcer sounded, the Phillies pitcher was pitching a perfect game. The bar burst into thunderous celebration, and in some cases agonized boos, every time the pitcher swung somebody out.

During one of these roars of victory and boos, a man tapped Stanley on the back. Swaying in his seat as he tried to turn around, Stanley was greeted by four very burly, very menacing men. All of them smiling. Unnervingly enough. Stanley’s eyes narrowed and he hiccuped, “Y-you guys … here to start somethin’?” They laughed. The second from the left sneered. “Yeah, I’d say so. I heard what you did to my cousin at the docks, you little shit. We’re here on his behalf.”

Stanley’s eyes widened. Oh shit.


	4. Bad Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oof warning for graphic violence my dudes also sorry im garbage and dont update

Nobody stopped them when they dragged Stanley out the bar and behind the dumpster. A kick to the gut had Stan kneeling on the ground. The one on the far right, a big burly guy with a beard and scraggly hair spat on him. Stan’s vision went red, and he went to move to get up and sock the guy, but he was cut off by a swift punch to the nose. He heard a crack and felt blood running down his lips and chin. “It’s best to stay down, kid, it’ll make this a lot easier for the both of us.”

This guy was gonna learn really fast that Stan was a terrible listener. The smaller man rolled backwards, away from the trio, and stood up, getting into his boxing stance. If there was one thing he learned from his father, it was how to hold his own in a fight. Even when he was outnumbered three to one.

As soon as he took stance, the middle man, the leader, nodded to his three friends. They were upon him so fast Stanley barely managed to escape their grasp. He gave a left hook to the smaller of the three, a blonde guy with a buzz cut and a mean face. Caught him right on the cheek. The bearded guy took the opportunity and caught Stanley in his chest, knocking the wind out of the younger man. “Fuck!” he wheezed, swinging again and making contact with the mouth of the other man attacking him, the mullet mother fucker. Stan managed to strike him so hard he could hear the sound of his jaw cracking.

The freshly struck man staggered backwards, mouth pouring blood, emitting a gurgle of pain. Finally, the largest of the men, the ring leader, stepped forward again. “Keep that up and you’ll die tonight, kid. You wouldn’t be the first.” Stanley snarled back at the bearded man, and charged, going in for another punch and swinging his right left at his attacker’s knees. They thunked with no effect, and his fist was caught mid air. Oh Moses.

The bearded man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You’re a god damn idiot, Pines. No wonder you got booted out. Who’d want such a fuckin’ moron for a son.” Stanley was about to retort when the glitter of a blade caught his eye. A knife. A big one at that. Stanley’s attacker held the knife in his free hand, and while Stanley struggled to escape from the iron grip on his fist, the knife was plunged into his right. Stanley’s eyes went wide at the excruciating pain of being stabbed, and his legs felt immediately weaker. Between the shock of being stabbed and the blood loss from his nose, Stanley fell to his knees when the man let go of his fist.

Stanley buckled over, holding the skin around the stab wound, eyes pouring with tears and his breath wheezing. Had he nicked his lung? God it felt like it. Stanley’s vision and hearing diminished quickly, feeling the life leave his body through the wound. Everything sounded like it was through water, and his vision kept going on as if he were blinking slower and slower. He could make out the sounds of conversation, taking pieces like “off shore” and “cement blocks”. He was really going to die tonight, like the man said, huh?

Stanley was making peace with his demons, with his pa, with Ford at this point, unable to see any way around his imminent death.  
And then there was light.

From what little Stanley could still see, a bright green light pierced the night and the sounds of startled men filled his ears. Figures moved quickly in and out of Stan’s vision before disappearing in more flashes, and then a hand made its way into the focus of Stan’s vision. He flinched from where he laid on the ground, in his own blood, as if anything worse could happen. The hand moved to where the knife was and suddenly there was no pain, only the sickening feeling of the knife sliding against his internal organs as it was slipped out. It was bizarre, a miraculous feeling of relief from pain. Stanley couldn’t keep his eyes open, or his mind alert any longer. He passed out, at the mercies of the stranger.


End file.
